No More Blind Dates
by MissMollyBloom
Summary: Sherlock and Molly have been secretly together (for want of a better word) for six months before John, Mary and Lestrade decide to set Molly up on a series of blind dates. Sherlock is, of course, not jealous at all. He just wants to make sure to do everything in his power to make sure every single date is a complete failure.


Part of my Ficlet Fridays - thanks to the Anon who sent me this prompt on Tumblr: "We are both so sucky at relationships that our friends don't even know we're dating and friend A is trying to set you up with their co-worker and I am forced to pipe up because… no?"

* * *

It was Molly's wretched idea. He didn't want to keep it a secret. He was perfectly fine with telling John and Mary and Gavin (Gus? Grant?). In fact, he was rather looking forward to boasting to John that he and Molly had broken the (albeit fictional) record of seven times in one night in Baker Street. Any man would be happy with those kinds of statistics.

But Molly said no. And he'd learnt early on that displeasing Molly meant a cold lonely stay in the proverbial doghouse – something he'd experienced firsthand when he was bored on afternoon in her flat and decided that Toby would look much more interesting with half of his fur shaved off. When Molly returned from her shift to see the poor feline's hindquarters completely bare, she not only kicked him out of her flat, but swore that there would be no more sex for him until Toby looked normal again.

She caved in after three days. But it was a long three days, Sherlock thought.

He'd certainly learned his lesson not cross Molly – and so their relationship had remained a secret for almost six months. Although, not for Sherlock's lack of trying to be caught.

It began simply enough. If John was with them in the lab, would make sure to brush past Molly a little too closely. Or, if Greg was there, Sherlock would make his hand linger on hers when she passed him a pathology report. Or, if he knew Mary was around, he would deliberately wear clothing he knew Molly appreciated - clothing he knew that she loved because of how quickly she would tear it off him. Often it was his aubergine shirt, or sometimes a jet-black one. He would make sure to stand with his hands on his hips, demonstrating just how impossibly tight his tailor had made them.

Every time, Molly would remain calm, showing no sign of what Sherlock knew for a fact: that not only did she appreciate what he was doing, but she was damn near driven wild by it. So much so, that she would tell him so in short breaths and between moans the next time they were alone together.

But despite all his attempts to show otherwise, for all intents and purposes, their friends believed that Molly was still desperately single – ever since she ended her engagement with Tim (no, Tom) over a year ago.

It wasn't a problem until their friends decided that Molly needed to start dating again.

It began with a text from Mary, which Molly read one morning after spending the night at Baker Street.

"Mary wants me to date a single dad she knows from her Playgroup," Molly said, her eyes fixed on the screen.

Sherlock rolled over, trying to angle himself so he could read the text without Molly noticing.

"Really?" He said, trying to remain casual.

"Yep. His name is Mark, he's tall, blonde, and works from home as a music teacher." Sherlock didn't like her tone, she sounded far too impressed with this Mark's "credentials".

"Divorced. Stay at home dad. Lots of baggage there." He couldn't help snapping into deduction mode – it was his default fall-back position whenever.

Molly sent of a quick text and shut down the app before Sherlock could see what she wrote. "Are you jealous?" Molly smirked.

"Me? Jealous? What on earth would I have to be jealous about?" He said with all the confidence of a vertigo sufferer on the top of a ten meter diving board.

"Good," Molly said, standing and wrapping herself in her robe, "Because I said yes." She added before casually strolling out of the room.

Sherlock wrapped the bedsheets around himself and followed her into the kitchen.

"You said what?" he called after her.

"It's just coffee. I'm meeting him at the café down the road from Bart's at 10."

"You can't!"

"Why?" She asked, her eyes wide with false innocence.

Sherlock grabbed her and kissed her, his mouth claiming hers, marking her as his.

Molly pulled away, breathless. "See?" She smiled, "What on earth do you have to be jealous about?"

—

Sherlock resigned himself to accept Molly's supposed "date" with Mark. But, Sherlock didn't believe that such acceptance didn't allow him to happen to visit that same coffee shop at the same time. And it didn't exclude disguising himself in a tight t-shirt emblazoned with something called "Ramones" on it, ripped denim jeans, dark rimmed glasses and a black fedora pulled over his curls. And it certainly didn't stop him choosing the table behind the pair, sitting so his back was to Molly's the whole time.

He sat and drank some God-awful beverage – Chai something – while listening intently. Although he could hear every word Molly had to say, he only caught snatches of Mark's half of the conversation.

"…and when I got home, she was gone," was the end of Mark's sob-story. Sherlock scoffed – who in their right might would dwell on their relationship failures on a first date? And who would be won over by such self-deprecating nonsense.

"That's horrible," Molly said in her most sincere tone.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, of course Molly, with her overactive sense of empathy would be drawn in by such a stupid ploy.

Sherlock desperately wanted to turn around, tell Molly exactly what he thought of Mark, and sharing the three – no, four – embarrassing personal details he'd already deduced about the man. But common sense (and a fear of Molly's wrath) won out. He sat in silence until the pair finished their date and left.

As he heard them leave, Sherlock sneaked out the exit through the kitchen and waited at the entrance of a nearby alleyway for Molly to pass.

"How was your date?" He asked as she walked past.

Molly stopped, her breath catching for a moment until she realised it was him.

"What the hell are you wearing?"

"I was undercover," he said, indignantly.

Molly was sceptical. "Undercover? At the coffee shop where I was meeting Mark?"

Sherlock nodded, "Quite a coincidence, I'll admit."

Molly's eyes widened, "You were spying on me!"

"No!" he paused, seeing that she wasn't buying it. "OK, yes."

Molly took a step back to assess his disguise. "What are you supposed to be?"

"Something called a hipster," he said, removing his hat and ruffling his flattened curls back to life.

Molly's eyes lingered on his tight jeans. "Hmmm… interesting," she said, keeping her face neutral.

"Do you like it?" Sherlock smirked.

Molly moved closer, mouth opened as if to kiss him, hand mere millimeters away from the tight front of his t-shirt, when she leant towards his ear, poised to whisper.

"I'd like it a lot better if you weren't such an ass." She said, biting his ear, then turning to leave him in the alleyway – alone and unsatisfied.

—

If Mary setting Molly up on a "date" with Mark wasn't annoying enough. The next day, Gavin came up with a bright idea while visiting the morgue.

"Molly, you're single, right?" George asked.

Sherlock shot a stern look at Molly, which he could see she'd promptly ignored.

"Yep. Still single," She said, with a look that almost dared Sherlock to say something.

"Because I've got a new recruit – Matthew. He's a lovely guy, still has a lot to learn about detective work, but he's kind and funny and into Doctor Who – he'd be a good match for you."

Sherlock couldn't stay silent. "Hear that, Molly," he began, met with Molly's narrowed eyes, which did nothing to deter him, "Garrett thinks that you'd be a good math for an _amateur_ detective!" He said, stressing the amateur.

"It's Greg," Lestrade protested.

"I thought you said the chap's name was Matthew?"

"Yes," Lestrade said, resigned.

"I'd love to, Greg. Set it up," Molly said, full of cheer.

—

That night in bed, Sherlock couldn't help saying something.

"You're not really going to go out with this Matthew, are you?"

Molly rolled over to face him, pulling the blankets so they covered her still-naked form.

"Why not?"

"I would think that's pretty obvious," Sherlock said, eyebrow raised as he gestured to her nakedness.

"But our friends think I'm single. If I said no to every blind-date they set me up on, they'd start to get suspicious," Molly explained.

"Maybe they should," Sherlock huffed under his breath.

"You said you weren't jealous," Molly reminded him.

"I'm not," said Sherlock, indignant, then rolled over in the kind of huff that he knew Molly hated.

—

Molly's dinner with Matthew went just as well as Sherlock had hoped.

Sherlock had done a great job hiding in plain sight. He was certain that neither of them noticed that the waiter with the French accent had a drawn-on mustache and hair just a little-too slicked back to hide naturally unruly curls. He was especially proud of himself when his unfortunate clumsiness stuck the moment Matthew reached out to hold Molly's hand, spilling a glass of wine in Matthew's lap. Sherlock was even more pleased when he was able to cause a cacophony in the kitchen the moment Matthew attempted to kiss Molly on the cheek before they parted.

He was so certain he'd gotten away with it, congratulating himself as he ran back to Molly's flat in an attempt to pretend he'd been reading casually on her couch the whole time.

"How stupid do you think I am?" Were Molly's angry words as she entered the flat.

Sherlock remained cool, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"John warned me about your friendly waiter routine. And your French accent isn't as good as you think it is!" She said, throwing her purse at him.

"I've been here all night Molly."

Molly shook her head. "You're saying you've been here. In my flat. On my couch. All night?"

Sherlock nodded, "Yes."

Molly walked towards her room. "Then you can stay there." She said over her shoulder before she slammed her bedroom door.

—

Two days later, Sherlock, John and Gabriel were waiting in Bart's lab for a pathology report. Mary and baby Charlotte entered.

"Mary – do you really think a lab is the best place for an infant?" Sherlock asked.

"She's safer here than at your place," Mary countered.

Sherlock nodded, "True."

"I'm going to the park across the road. Just wanted to know if Molly wanted to join us on her break," Mary explained.

Molly joined them all, handing the report to Gerald.

"So Molly," John began, "I've got a locum doctor at my practice. Jack. He's Scottish, has red hair, Mary thinks he looks like that guy from the show you both like. I disagree."

Mary frowned, "I swear, he could be Jamie Fraser," she exclaimed.

Sherlock didn't know what a _Jamie Fraser_ was, but he could tell that it was something that appealed to women, so he instinctively didn't like it.

"Well, to settle an argument, I probably should at least meet him," Molly said.

Sherlock had had enough.

"No!"

His volume was enough to make all heads in the room turn to him.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" Molly asked, playing naive as best she could.

"I've had enough!"

"Enough of what, mate?" John asked.

"First it was Mary, then Gus, now you John. Would you all stop trying to set up my…" Sherlock trailed off. He didn't know what Molly was to him.

"Your what?" Mary prompted.

"My… my Molly. Molly. Mine. Molly mine. Is." He rambled.

"Molly's your what?" Gene asked.

Sherlock moved over to Molly, pulling her into an embrace and planting a kiss squarely on her lips.

"Molly is mine. And I am hers."

Mary, John and Griffin applauded, somewhat over-excitedly for Sherlock's tastes.

Molly's face went bright red.

"Well, I guess it's not a secret anymore," she beamed.

"Oh honey," Mary patted her on the arm, "it hasn't been a secret for a long time!"

"Really?" Molly asked, searching their faces.

"I may not be Sherlock Holmes," Gil began, "but it's not that hard to notice the lingering touches."

"And the personal-space invasions," John added.

"And his ridiculous clothes and all his preening around you," Mary concluded.

Sherlock smirked, "I knew it would work!" he said, congratulating himself.

"So, no more blind dates?" Sherlock asked Molly.

"No more blind dates," Molly agreed, and kissed him.


End file.
